Prologue:
My name is Victor Black, and I am dead.
In the name of evil, I have killed many enemies in light of defending this mortal world. It's surreal, truly, because as recompense my wife's throat was slit from ear to ear and my unborn son cut from her belly as if pulled out through a maggot hole.
I was born on the hard stone flags of St. Margaret's Chapel, my birth set deep within the high walled outcrop of Edinburgh Castle. The Chapel, from my grasping, was built in the year 1130 BC by King David I (b. 1084) in memory of his mother, Queen Margaret (1046-1093 CE) for her devout practices of Roman Catholicism in her new adoptive homelands: Scotland. It was here Margaret provided aid and care to the poor in mass quantities; however, it was only in later years to come, 1250 BC (thereabouts) that Queen Margaret was sanctified by the Roman Catholic Church and bestowed with the title of 'Saint Margaret', by Pope Innocent IV. It was there upon that freezing November night that I was placed upon the room's high presbytery and left to die.
Apart from the blooded alter shroud swaddling me at the time of my discovery, its golden embroidered crucifix charred blood red, I have no evidence to this day of my ancestral lineage. Though I have, however, been back many times as a man to see my rightful birthplace in search of truth, but I can honestly say, there is nothing that I have found. Like many others with the name, Margaret, my visits have always been under the guise on St Margaret's Day, to pay homage to my homely kin. I kiss gentle the hand of the Saint to thank her on that fateful night for watching over me. Does she hold the secret to my past? The chapel, its oblong circumference only small, is situated on a rocky mound inside the walls of the castle. Ornately embossed with figurines of blue, purple, green and red in sparkling psychedelic-stained glass windows, it was originally etched by Douglas Strachan in 1922, each of which depicts four noble Scottish saints: St. Andrew, St. Columba, St Margaret, St. Ninian, along with the prominent, Sir William Wallace.
Why the talk on St. Margaret's Chapel? It's simple: first, I catch my breath as I reminisce to tell you a tale. I believe it is imperative for any man (or woman) to know their ancestral lineage, their place of birth – to look upon the doorway on how they came into this world – all of which, in time, may reveal to them many unseen answers.
This is a true story. Victor Black is not my real name.
